a poem about drug use.
|The Happiest Disease
We’re not immune to sadness or joyful noise,
Or blind to tears in the bitterest rain.
We’re confused when the ones we try to protect,
Writhe silently in self-inflicted pain.
We can’t protect them from ourselves,
Or the viruses built to succeed.
The accidental are no less fatal,
Dullest needles in veins pierce no less deep.
Dry the red eyes that weep in submission,
We cry for the funeral vacation.
There’s no safe place for open conditions,
Lies buried private in isolation.
It’s sobering when reality defines the divine,
And we find we lie not among these.
Our short lives spent in a miserable state,
Or is this drug the happiest disease.